


Song Title: For John

by imbeccacile



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 03:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19098964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbeccacile/pseuds/imbeccacile
Summary: John Watson has not had an easy life. He's haunted by past traumas, and he thinks that he might never get a break.Sherlock Holmes claims he writes songs for himself, and not for other people. But as it turns out, that’s not the case at all.





	Song Title: For John

**Author's Note:**

> writing this just made me think about everything John has been through...poor guy :(((
> 
> kudos/comments are always appreciated!

It started within the first week of living together.

 

Despite the excitement of the lady in pink, and the discovery that he could, in fact, walk and run perfectly fine without his crutch - that he  _ needed _ danger and adventure in his life - John still suffered from nightmares.

 

Of course he would. PTSD didn’t just go away overnight. He had to remind himself that.

 

They weren’t frequent. Not terrible, like when he was living on his own. But a couple nights after their first case, John awoke in the middle of the night in cold sweat, breathing hard and staring wide-eyed at a wall.

 

Even though it was very early in the morning (the sun wouldn’t be rising for a few hours), he got out of bed to make himself some tea to calm himself down. He walked down the stairs, and in the living room, Sherlock was exactly where John had left him hours ago when he went to bed - at his desk, staring at his laptop.

 

He hadn’t expected his flatmate to be awake, but then again, John knew almost nothing about Sherlock’s habits; they had only met just a week ago, after all. Still, he cleared his throat.

 

“Hello,” he greeted awkwardly, not sure whether to say ‘good morning’ or ‘good evening’ at this point. Sherlock did a sort of double take, then watched him for a moment.

 

“Hi,” he replied, gaze sliding back to the laptop, though he didn’t type anything. Folding his hands, two slender fingers pressed together and rested against his nose. John couldn’t imagine what he’d be working on this late, but he didn’t ask.

 

With that, he walked to the kitchen to start the kettle. “Sherlock,” he asked, “would you like some tea?” 

 

“Sure, yes,” came the reply, and John simply shook his head, grabbing two cups instead of one. He wasn’t planning on going back to sleep; might as well make conversation.

 

With the two cups, he walked back into the living room, setting Sherlock’s cup gently beside the computer, then took a seat in his armchair. Bringing the cup to his lips, it immediately filled him with warmth and artificial comfort, which he very much appreciated.

 

He looked over at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved since he went to get the tea. “What are you doing? I mean, don’t you sleep?”

 

He’d meant it as a joke, but Sherlock didn’t laugh. “Reading,” he responded quietly, lips still pressed against his fingers. The only source of light in the room was the full moon, and it illuminated the detective’s features. 

Rather abruptly, Sherlock turned in his chair to look at him. “Do you…” he looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Do you need to...talk...about it?”

 

“About what?” John swallowed, and for a split second he wondered how on Earth Sherlock would know. But then he remembered who Sherlock Holmes was and what he could do. “No, I...I’d rather not. It’s in my past.”

 

Sherlock looked relieved at the answer. “Excellent. The whole ‘feelings’ thing is not my forte, but Lestrade insists I try to be more  _ open _ .” The word seemed to disgust him. 

 

John smiled slightly, taking a sip of his tea. “I’ve noticed.”

 

A ghost of a smile appeared on the other’s face, and he turned back to his computer again.

 

They were quiet, but John didn’t particularly mind. It was a comfortable silence, and so much better than when he was living alone, despite barely knowing Sherlock. That silence was always deafening when he was alone, and he could never escape his mind.

 

Here, it wasn’t like that. And he was grateful.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, obviously surprised to hear the words. “For what?”

 

“Your concern,” he answered with a shrug, taking another sip of his tea.

 

The other didn’t seem to have a witty response, for once. He simply nodded a little. “You’re welcome.” He took a long sip from his cup. John watched him for a moment before looking down at the liquid in his own. 

 

“John?” his voice was quiet but sudden, and Sherlock was bending over a bit, reaching under the desk. “You wouldn’t mind if I played for a while, would you?” When he stood up, he was holding the violin by its neck in one hand and the bow in the other, facing him with that same blank face he usually had.

 

The doctor shook his head slightly. “No, not at all.” He wasn’t going to be sleeping any time soon, anyway. He took another sip and watched Sherlock walk towards the window, placing the violin on his left shoulder.

 

The melody was slow, smooth, and beautiful. John didn’t think he’d ever heard anything like it. He finished off his tea and placed the cup down on the table, leaning his elbows on his knees to listen closer. 

 

He’d certainly never heard the tune before. Perhaps Sherlock wrote it. He wanted to ask, but he surely didn’t want to break his concentration.

 

Shaking his head a little, he leaned back against the chair, just watching his flatmate’s movements. They were slow, but nothing about him was robotic, like most people thought. He could tell he was really feeling the music, and it was quite admirable.

 

The more he listened, the heavier his eyelids got. Strange, he thought. He had never, once, felt sleepy after he’d had a nightmare.

 

And yet here he was, unable to keep his eyes open.

 

He fought it for awhile, but eventually gave in, closing his eyes and letting himself sleep again.

 

He didn’t dream.

 

When he woke the next morning, he was alone in the flat, but someone had thrown a blanket over him. 

 

He never did get to thank Sherlock for it. Whether it was intentional or not, he couldn’t tell. But every so often, with his infrequent nightmares, Sherlock somehow always knew when he had one.

 

Sometimes John wouldn’t even leave his room and he’d hear that sweet melody from downstairs. 

 

It was amazing, really.

 

One morning he asked where it came from.

 

“I wrote it,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly while he worked on some sort of experiment in the kitchen. 

 

“It’s brilliant. You could sell compositions, you know.”

 

Sherlock simply gave him a look. “I could. But I write songs for myself, not for other people.”

 

John raised a brow, but he knew there was no fighting him on that. He was a detective, and that was all he wanted to do. “Alright, then. What have you called it?”

 

“Why do you think everything needs a title?”

 

He laughed. “Songs need titles, Sherlock.”

“Debatable.”

 

And that was the end of that conversation. Sherlock rarely talked about other things he’d written; John wasn’t even sure if he had written anything except for that song.

 

Still, he appreciated it, no title and all. It was special, because Sherlock never played it for anyone else. It was only for him.

 

When Sherlock died, John’s nightmares got exponentially worse. He spent one night in 221B and woke up screaming. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Sherlock’s mangled body and it made him sob for hours, unable to pull himself together.

 

He was alone, again. The comfortable silence with Sherlock was replaced with the deafening one he’d had when he lived alone. He missed the melody. His melody.

 

And he missed the man who played it.

 

This flat would haunt him forever, he thought. So he moved out as soon as possible. He felt guilty for leaving Mrs. Hudson, but he simply could not stay there. 

 

So he bought a new house, and he lived alone. He couldn’t get a new flatmate. It was better to just start off new. On his own.

 

It only helped a little. Most nights he couldn’t fall asleep. He’d just have to sit and stare, wishing Sherlock would pull off one more miracle.

 

Almost a full year after his death, Mrs. Hudson came by. She visited every now and then, and they’d share tea and try to talk about anything but the detective. As long as she didn’t stay too long, it was usually okay.

 

This time, their chat would be different. She held a little envelope that had John’s name on it. “I was cleaning out...his things,” she said, managing a small smile, “I found this. I don’t know what it is, but I figured you might want it.”

 

He invited her inside, but didn’t take the envelope right away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know its contents. Before she left, he took the envelope and tossed it onto his coffee table to say goodbye to her.

 

For the next hour, he just stared at it, emotion bubbling up inside him like a volcano. Anger, sadness, grief, it was all still there, and it was so frustrating.

 

Finally, he gave up and reached forward, opening it.

 

A letter and a DVD fell out. The letter just said,  _ For if I’m not there - SH. _

 

Clenching his jaw, he swallowed and shakily turned the DVD over. It had  _ Song Title: For John _ written on the front.

 

He almost dropped it. He stared at it for at least a few full minutes, not knowing what to think. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he got up and carefully put it into his television. He stayed standing, almost not wanting to believe it.

 

When it loaded, it showed Sherlock standing in between the two armchairs, glancing over his shoulder. When he looked back at the camera, he looked a bit concerned, strangely enough, though his eyes were soft.

 

“Hey, John,” he said, and the voice itself was enough to make John’s heart stop. His knees gave out and he stumbled backward into his chair, though he leaned forward, holding onto every word. “You’ve just had another nightmare. I can tell because I heard movement upstairs.”

 

He paused for a long moment, as if thinking what he wanted to say. “I don’t want to think about the possibility of us parting ways, John. I can’t imagine not having you by my side to compliment me even at my worst.”

 

John let a small smile find its way onto his face, though it was fleeting.

 

“But if we  _ do _ think about it, and I do - unfortunate, really, where my thoughts take me - it is more likely than we could hope for.” Sherlock gave a sort of half smile that lasted about one second. John knew he was thinking of Moriarty. He had to have been. He wouldn’t have lied. “I figured that if there is one way I could articulate my thanks to you, if we do part ways...well. You know words were never my forte.”

 

He took a step back and started playing the song.  _ His _ song.

 

John didn’t realize he was crying until the end, watching in a sort of trance as Sherlock waltzed about the room while he played. He was sure he didn’t blink for about five minutes.

 

The song ended, and so did the DVD.

 

John sobbed for a long time after that. He didn’t know how long. Eventually, he pressed play again, and fell asleep in his chair, tear tracks still clear on his face.

 

He didn’t want to ever watch the DVD again after that day. It hurt too much.

 

And then he met Mary.

 

She completely changed his life. She didn’t care that he was a broken man. She could see past his grief and was there to help him heal.

 

After just a few months of dating, he asked her to move in with him. She said yes.

 

It was nice not living on his own anymore. Mary gave him someone to focus on, and he wasn’t trapped inside his mind all of the time.

 

Having her by his side meant his emotions were gradually easing up. Some days were still worse than others, but he could be productive from time to time.

 

He didn’t wake up screaming every night anymore. He would every now and then, and she was there for him.

 

It wasn’t the song. It wasn’t Sherlock. But he had to move on.

 

He did. He was going to. John was going to marry Mary. And that was that.

 

And then Sherlock turned up, alive, the night he was going to propose.

 

Yes, he might have overreacted a little, but he couldn’t take it. Two years of hurt and grief, two years of feeling alone and Sherlock was trying to make jokes.

 

John found himself unable to sleep again, only this time due to anger and confusion. Why? How?

 

Why did his heart hurt so much?

 

Eventually, with Mary’s insistence, and almost being burned alive, he was in the process of forgiving his friend for...going away. Things could never be exactly as they were, but what mattered, in the end, was that Sherlock was okay.

 

It was what he’d been hoping for. He got his wish.

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock wrote a rather beautiful best man speech, and, after preventing the death of Commander Sholto, the reception was going to be fun. Sherlock played the violin and John danced with Mary, and it was everything he could have hoped for for his wedding; even if that included the fact that they had a baby on the way.

 

After an hour, John went to take a break, get something to drink. He looked around for Sherlock to joke with him (“I thought you didn’t write compositions for people”), but he couldn’t find him anywhere. Frowning, he noticed there was an envelope left on the music stand.

 

He went to it, carefully picking it up. It said “Dr. and Mrs. Watson” and inside of it was the piece of music he’d just been playing, titled,  _ Waltz, for Mary and John _ , by Sherlock Holmes.

 

John looked out at the sea of people; his friends and family, Mary’s friends...and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He swallowed, feeling a pit in his stomach. But before anyone could notice he was tearing up a bit, he cleared his throat, stuck the envelope in his pocket, and went to go dance with Mary some more.

 

He thought about Sherlock on and off. He hadn’t seen him for a month, at least - it was like he dropped off the face of the Earth after the wedding. And then, of course, he found him in a drug house.

 

A lot spiraled out of control since that day.

 

He was lied to about Mary’s identity. He was angry, and then he had time to calm down, and he forgave her.

 

She gave birth in the back of a car. Bloody, and messy, and loud, but his daughter was born healthy.

 

Rosamund Mary Watson. John didn’t think he could love anything as much as he loved her.

 

When Mary died, he felt like the world around him was crumbling. It was the same feeling he felt when Sherlock ‘died’. That was probably a big reason he pushed his friend away. He couldn’t bear the thought. 

 

Why did he lose everyone he loved?

 

He was alone in his house, again, caring for a baby. New fathers never got sleep, but John had a feeling that even if he hadn’t had a daughter, he still wouldn’t be sleeping. How could he?

 

He used the DVD once. It made him cry, not because of grief this time. They hadn’t parted ways because one of them died; it was because John pushed him away. 

 

But it did allow him to sleep that one night.

 

It took a long time. It took more of a nudge than when Sherlock came back from the dead. He owed it all to Mrs. Hudson, really. But it was a good thing. He couldn’t possibly live in his house anymore.

 

It was him and Sherlock again. And it was what it was.

 

After 221B had been fixed up again, John and Rosie moved back in. 

 

John was woken up one night recently after, not by a dream, but by his daughter’s crying. He got up, picking her up and shushing her quietly as he headed down the stairs. He’d hate to wake Sherlock, but he knew she wouldn’t calm down unless he walked around.

 

He bounced her a little, almost falling asleep standing up, so he sat down in his armchair, wishing and hoping she’d stop crying, so he could please get some more sleep. Despite his trauma, he was too tired to care if he woke up again later.

 

He was fighting to keep his eyes open even as Rosie cried, and he rubbed her back, knowing she’d get snot all over him but not particularly caring.

 

He was so exhausted that he hadn’t even noticed Sherlock walk in, and wordlessly take Rosie from him. “Sher…” he trailed off, squinting as he tried to make some sense. It  _ was _ him.

 

Sherlock didn’t look upset in the slightest. In fact, he looked at ease despite the baby screaming and crying in his ear. He held her, and whispered to her, and he walked towards the television. John was too exhausted to say anything. He just watched, a surprised look on his face. Sherlock was so great with her. Much...gentler than he could have thought.

 

He bent over a bit, and John couldn’t see what he was doing. He was about to ask what he was doing when he heard his voice.

 

“Hey, John.”

 

He whipped his head around and noticed that Sherlock had put the DVD on. He skipped through the recorded bits, still holding Rosie close despite her screams, and got to the beginning of the song.

 

His song.

 

Rosie stopped crying almost immediately. She grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s robe, seemingly transfixed by the melody, just like John was that first night.

  
John couldn’t move. He let the melody - which he, once or twice, had associated as a bad memory - wash over him again as a good thing. “Thank you,” he whispered, before he fell asleep again to the song titled  _ For John,  _ and so did his daughter.


End file.
